


In which Crowley examines a glass of wine

by luna55



Series: Good Omens - Ficlets, Drabbles and Ineffable Fluff [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Confessions, Hope, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Soul-Searching, Touch-Starved, Touching, after the end of the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 01:24:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna55/pseuds/luna55
Summary: “You know” Crowley begins, considering his wine glass in some detail, “I thought you were dead.”A ficlet in which Crowley is vulnerable and Aziraphale is reassuring.





	In which Crowley examines a glass of wine

“You know” Crowley begins, considering his wine glass in some detail, “I thought you were dead.”

The glass holds a rather nice white he picked up in some tiny vineyard near Toulouse, in the 1850s, or was it the 1860s, he can’t remember. He’s normally a red drinker, but made an exception for this, really quite exquisite grape. Maybe he should make a trip back there one of these -

“You thought I was …?” Aziraphale interrupts his contemplation.

“Dead. Yup” he lingers over the final plosive as he twirls the glass, watching the wine reflect the flickering light of the firelight in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop.

“Thought I was imagining things. Off my rocker, 6,000 years and impending Armageddon had sent me out of the deep end and into the fire.”

There are tiny specks of amber in the wine, glints of firelight. He doesn’t know why Aziraphale is so comfortable having fire here, after, well after that night. But then, Aziraphale hadn’t been there. Hadn’t had to see it, to think that-

He watches a vortex form in the glass, drawing the light in, spinning it, throwing it out again.

“You thought you’d lost your best friend.” A statement, not a question.

“Yup” again with the final plosive. He likes Aziraphale’s wine glasses, proper crystal, old fashioned, early 20th Century. None of that awful geometric cut crystal that has been popular for so long. Aziraphale’s wine glasses are all smooth flowing shapes that, in the right light, might almost seem to be shaped like wings.

“Oh Crowley” Aziraphale has always had a way of saying his name, a universe of feeling caught in those two syllables.

Crowley stops swirling, watching the wine as it settles into stillness.

He breathes, and looks up, eyes wide and open and vulnerable. Aziraphale’s eyes are fixed on his.

The room is full of a stream of chattering sound that Crowley wishes would stop because all he wants is to understand everything those eyes are saying, and he hates babbling, it’s so pointless and uncontrolled and he realises he’s the one doing it.

“There was a fire, and all the books, and they knew, they knew about u- about the Arrangement, and I couldn’t find you, and I can always find you, always know where you sodding are, angel, and I thought they’d come down and killed you and I was alone, with Armageddon and you wouldn’t sodding come away with me and I couldn’t save you this time and you were gone-”

His voice stops, Aziraphale’s hand is on his cheek. He doesn’t remember Aziraphale ever touching him like this.

Aziraphale is so much closer now, somehow, and Crowley’s entire being is taken up in those eyes, in that touch on his cheek.

“Oh, Crowley” Aziraphale says again, in a voice 6000 years deep. Crowley falls.

**Author's Note:**

> The first in what I hope will be a collection of post-apocalypse ficlets as I try and process *all the feelings* Good Omens stirred up.


End file.
